If you know me, you know I'm a sucker for long takes. Like everyone else, I also love a great piece of dialogue. This, perhaps, is my favorite combination of the two, from a movie I have seen 183 times (I'll probably watch it again tonight, so 184).
Friday, June 13, 2008
Thursday, June 12, 2008
Favorite Moments in Film
A popular trend in Hollywood for the past decade has been comedic actors taking serious turns on film: Jim Carrey, Will Ferrell, Robin Williams, and Bill Murray. Some really hit the mark (Bill Murray, Lost in Translation) and some don't and should never try again (Will Ferrell, anything even remotely dramatic). One surprising example is Adam Sandler in Punch Drunk Love, which is an amazing film by PTA that really allows Sandler to show his depth as an actor. The combination of his tortured performance and Anderson's direction makes this one of my favorite and most memorable films.
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
Wednesdays With Oliver
I had to fire Oliver 2 weeks ago for being terrible at his job, not for being an idiot, but I'll leave you with one last gem.
Oliver: How come some Indian people have normal names and some have weird ones?
Me: You mean how some have Catholic names and others have Indian names?
Oliver: Yeah.
Me: Well some Indians are Catholic and get Catholic names and some are Hindu and get Hindu or traditional Indian names.
Oliver: That's dumb. They should just choose easy names like John and stuff.
Me: Yeah, and they should wear gold stars on their clothes.
Oliver: Do they do that?
Me: Have you ever heard of the Holocaust?
Oliver: Is that a band?
Me: Are you kidding me?
Oliver: Why? Is it a really good band? Are they metal? I love metal bro.
Oliver: How come some Indian people have normal names and some have weird ones?
Me: You mean how some have Catholic names and others have Indian names?
Oliver: Yeah.
Me: Well some Indians are Catholic and get Catholic names and some are Hindu and get Hindu or traditional Indian names.
Oliver: That's dumb. They should just choose easy names like John and stuff.
Me: Yeah, and they should wear gold stars on their clothes.
Oliver: Do they do that?
Me: Have you ever heard of the Holocaust?
Oliver: Is that a band?
Me: Are you kidding me?
Oliver: Why? Is it a really good band? Are they metal? I love metal bro.
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
My Problem with Indian People (Part 6 of a 500-part series)
This past Saturday was ridiculously busy. One of the chefs didn't show up, dad had to be in the kitchen, house was packed all night, and we ended up doing 117 covers (we're a 40 seat restaurant). Throughout this craziness, an Indian family came in with an online reservation for a 4 seat. I sat them down and handed them menus, asked their drinks a few minutes later (4 waters no ice), and gave them some time to decide on dinner. After 15 minutes (they asked for more time) with 3 tables waiting at the door, they decided to tell me that they didn't want to eat. Why? Because it was too expensive.
(Most) Indian people are cheap. There it is. When they come into the restaurant, I don't expect to write much of an order let alone a reasonable tip. The majority of families will come in and order 1 dish and 4-5 breads, which is like 1.5 pieces of chicken or paneer per person. After eating and expressing their enjoyment of the food, they will always complain that it's too expensive. No matter how amazed they are with the quality, it's always too fucking expensive. It's behavior like this that causes us to say "Oh shit, desis" under our breath when they walk in, which makes us look like dicks, but whatever.
This character trait doesn't just apply to food, but to all facets of life. Every transaction becomes an opportunity to haggle or complain, no matter how much money they make from their cushy IT job (yes I stereotype fuck you very much). Many of the people my parents know are disgustingly rich (Newport Coast rich) and praise our food every chance they get, yet haven't been to the restaurant within the last 10 years, because they're fucking cheap. They will continue to frequent the cheapest, crappiest Indian fast food Orange County has to offer and pretend like it's fucking ambrosia, because who could say otherwise about $5.99 for Tandoori chicken?
Indian people are often portrayed as either uptight or laid back and carefree, but I think we all know which way they really lean. They need to lighten up and enjoy the money they work so hard to make. If Asian people can do it, god knows desis can too.
(Most) Indian people are cheap. There it is. When they come into the restaurant, I don't expect to write much of an order let alone a reasonable tip. The majority of families will come in and order 1 dish and 4-5 breads, which is like 1.5 pieces of chicken or paneer per person. After eating and expressing their enjoyment of the food, they will always complain that it's too expensive. No matter how amazed they are with the quality, it's always too fucking expensive. It's behavior like this that causes us to say "Oh shit, desis" under our breath when they walk in, which makes us look like dicks, but whatever.
This character trait doesn't just apply to food, but to all facets of life. Every transaction becomes an opportunity to haggle or complain, no matter how much money they make from their cushy IT job (yes I stereotype fuck you very much). Many of the people my parents know are disgustingly rich (Newport Coast rich) and praise our food every chance they get, yet haven't been to the restaurant within the last 10 years, because they're fucking cheap. They will continue to frequent the cheapest, crappiest Indian fast food Orange County has to offer and pretend like it's fucking ambrosia, because who could say otherwise about $5.99 for Tandoori chicken?
Indian people are often portrayed as either uptight or laid back and carefree, but I think we all know which way they really lean. They need to lighten up and enjoy the money they work so hard to make. If Asian people can do it, god knows desis can too.
Sunday, June 1, 2008
Restaurant Somewhat Confidential: Fingertips and Breakups
Running a restaurant is, as cliche as this sounds, a war of attrition. On one side, you have your heroes (me), leading a ragtag group of mouthbreathers with basic culinary skills to unattainable glory. Then there's the enemy (customers), who will stop at nothing to find and expose your slightest weakness, ripping you open and driving you under with all their might.* As with all wars, there's crying, screaming, and every now and then limbs are lost, as was the case a few weeks ago.
It was 6:30 on Friday night and we were already fucked. Parents were out of town and I was completely in charge. Full house, understaffed, and oversexed (standard). Lots of children, lots of screaming, and lots of Aleve. Seriously, I wanna endorse the stuff, it's magical. Now, no matter how stressed the waitstaff is or how dire the dining room situation may be, the kitchen is always more laid back than an ironing board. There's music (Bollywood film songs, Power 106, or that Ranchero accordion crap), laughter, and more penis jokes than you can shake a... well, penis at. Seriously, if you ever work in a restaurant, go somewhere without any type of sausage or kebab on the menu, cause it's all phallic, all the time. Better yet, don't work at a restaurant, be a telemarketer. Then kill yourself.
Knowing all this, I stopped dead in my tracks the moment I realized there was not one goddamn sound coming out of that seemingly never ending fiesta. I peered in and saw everyone circled around Nitin, the new Tandoor guy, and I started looking for the blood. It was bound to be somewhere. Not spotting anything after a cursory glance, I became hopeful about the situation, and asked what the fuck everyone was standing around for. Then I see Nitin, holding a towel over his left hand, sadly motioning to the tip of his left index finger, lying on the cutting board next to some green and newly red cilantro. "Fuck."
My first reaction was "Wow, he's really calm." Using my terrible Hindi, I figured he thought there really wasn't much bleeding and didn't feel much pain. Without my dad around, I had to make a decision fast, and despite my hoping it would all work out fine, I thought it best to take him to the walk-in clinic nearby (yeah I know, I'm an asshole, that should've been my first choice). I told Nitin to keep holding the towel and putting pressure on his nub while I put his fingertip on ice and grabbed my keys. Just after I told him this, he decided to take the towel off.
For a moment, hushed silence. Then he started screaming and blood was spraying everywhere. Just like in Kill Bill. Seriously. Three other guys forced the towel back on and tried to calm him down, and as much as I cared about his well being, the whole time I just keep thinking "Please don't get blood on the expensive ingredients." Luckily the nub was re-covered before any food got a fresh coat and Nitin's yelling became a quiet whimpering (with the help of 2 Aleve tablets).
Ten minutes and near collision later, a kindly old nurse at the clinic sprayed some weird foam that smelled like cherries on Nitin's finger and reattached the tip. After paying about $400 for this (fuck the US healthcare system, honestly), we raced back to the restaurant. Nitin, the good sport, refused to go home and rest and continued to work for the night. I headed into the dining room and, for the second time that night, faced the greatest fear of any restaurateur: silence.
The room was still packed, people were quietly eating, and everyone was trying not to stare at Table 4 in the corner. Walking over there, I found a young man with his head in his hands and a cute brunette with tear-smudged makeup. Knowing that this was already a huge mistake in, I thought "Fuck it" and asked if everything was alright. The girl's answer consisted of a bunch of sobbing, pointing, and the liberal use of the word "asshole." The guy said they were just going through a rough patch. Not wanting to deal with the mounting checks in the back, I tried to remedy the situation and get them the fuck out of there.
I start off by asking the basic questions, like how long they've been together and such (highly inappropriate, but hey, that's me). Turns out it's been three years and long distance but the girl just moved back for good. Then I simply asked if they loved each other, to which they both replied yes. After pointing out that the decision was pretty simple knowing those facts, the guy agreed to give it another shot and work things out, which elicited a tiny annoying scream from the girl. They shared an awkward hug and kiss across the table, and I asked if they wanted anything else. Thankfully, he just needed the bill. Dr. Phil, go fuck yourself.
After checking on the other tables and finishing the checks in the back, I spent the rest of the night playing tennis on my cell (great timewaster). At the end of service as I held the door open for the last table to leave, a guy asked, "Hey, is that blood on your shirt?" I look down and see a faint smattering of blood on the right side of my shirt. I proudly reply "Yes, but it's not mine." He smiles. "Nice," he says. "Nice."
*Note: I love our customers. Most of them. Really.
It was 6:30 on Friday night and we were already fucked. Parents were out of town and I was completely in charge. Full house, understaffed, and oversexed (standard). Lots of children, lots of screaming, and lots of Aleve. Seriously, I wanna endorse the stuff, it's magical. Now, no matter how stressed the waitstaff is or how dire the dining room situation may be, the kitchen is always more laid back than an ironing board. There's music (Bollywood film songs, Power 106, or that Ranchero accordion crap), laughter, and more penis jokes than you can shake a... well, penis at. Seriously, if you ever work in a restaurant, go somewhere without any type of sausage or kebab on the menu, cause it's all phallic, all the time. Better yet, don't work at a restaurant, be a telemarketer. Then kill yourself.
Knowing all this, I stopped dead in my tracks the moment I realized there was not one goddamn sound coming out of that seemingly never ending fiesta. I peered in and saw everyone circled around Nitin, the new Tandoor guy, and I started looking for the blood. It was bound to be somewhere. Not spotting anything after a cursory glance, I became hopeful about the situation, and asked what the fuck everyone was standing around for. Then I see Nitin, holding a towel over his left hand, sadly motioning to the tip of his left index finger, lying on the cutting board next to some green and newly red cilantro. "Fuck."
My first reaction was "Wow, he's really calm." Using my terrible Hindi, I figured he thought there really wasn't much bleeding and didn't feel much pain. Without my dad around, I had to make a decision fast, and despite my hoping it would all work out fine, I thought it best to take him to the walk-in clinic nearby (yeah I know, I'm an asshole, that should've been my first choice). I told Nitin to keep holding the towel and putting pressure on his nub while I put his fingertip on ice and grabbed my keys. Just after I told him this, he decided to take the towel off.
For a moment, hushed silence. Then he started screaming and blood was spraying everywhere. Just like in Kill Bill. Seriously. Three other guys forced the towel back on and tried to calm him down, and as much as I cared about his well being, the whole time I just keep thinking "Please don't get blood on the expensive ingredients." Luckily the nub was re-covered before any food got a fresh coat and Nitin's yelling became a quiet whimpering (with the help of 2 Aleve tablets).
Ten minutes and near collision later, a kindly old nurse at the clinic sprayed some weird foam that smelled like cherries on Nitin's finger and reattached the tip. After paying about $400 for this (fuck the US healthcare system, honestly), we raced back to the restaurant. Nitin, the good sport, refused to go home and rest and continued to work for the night. I headed into the dining room and, for the second time that night, faced the greatest fear of any restaurateur: silence.
The room was still packed, people were quietly eating, and everyone was trying not to stare at Table 4 in the corner. Walking over there, I found a young man with his head in his hands and a cute brunette with tear-smudged makeup. Knowing that this was already a huge mistake in, I thought "Fuck it" and asked if everything was alright. The girl's answer consisted of a bunch of sobbing, pointing, and the liberal use of the word "asshole." The guy said they were just going through a rough patch. Not wanting to deal with the mounting checks in the back, I tried to remedy the situation and get them the fuck out of there.
I start off by asking the basic questions, like how long they've been together and such (highly inappropriate, but hey, that's me). Turns out it's been three years and long distance but the girl just moved back for good. Then I simply asked if they loved each other, to which they both replied yes. After pointing out that the decision was pretty simple knowing those facts, the guy agreed to give it another shot and work things out, which elicited a tiny annoying scream from the girl. They shared an awkward hug and kiss across the table, and I asked if they wanted anything else. Thankfully, he just needed the bill. Dr. Phil, go fuck yourself.
After checking on the other tables and finishing the checks in the back, I spent the rest of the night playing tennis on my cell (great timewaster). At the end of service as I held the door open for the last table to leave, a guy asked, "Hey, is that blood on your shirt?" I look down and see a faint smattering of blood on the right side of my shirt. I proudly reply "Yes, but it's not mine." He smiles. "Nice," he says. "Nice."
*Note: I love our customers. Most of them. Really.
Thursday, May 29, 2008
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
My Problem with Indian People (Part 5 of a 500-part series)
They are never on time. Ever. I'm not exaggerating, they just suck at being places at the appropriate or agreed-upon time. If they make a reservation for, let's say, 8:00pm, I can guarantee you that they won't be there before 8:30, 9:45 at the latest, and complain about there not being a table or the restaurant closing, after trying to contact them 3 times. If there is a party that starts at a certain time, they will arrive at least an hour late, and complain about the food being cold or something else as ridiculous. Just remember, if you're ever meeting an Indian person anywhere, be there at least 40 minutes late, so for once they'll know what it's like to have their time wasted instead of yours.
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